


A Taste of Home

by theasexualhedgehog



Series: Rhody Tales [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, historically accurate fic, jack has a roadtrip adventure, part 1 of 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 22:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theasexualhedgehog/pseuds/theasexualhedgehog
Summary: Jack finds a little piece of home in Rhode Island.





	A Taste of Home

Jack paused outside his apartment building, staring up at the Dunk. It was still a weird experience seeing himself on the side of the building. It’s not that Samwell didn’t promote their hockey team, but the posters on the outside of Faber didn’t face Rt 146, where hundreds of thousands of people drove past hundred foot tall posters of Jack and the rest of the Falcs. Today, the southbound side of 146 was jammed with people trying to get to the beach. It was only 7:30am, but they day promised to be a scorcher. Who knew it would get so warm in Rhode Island in late July. Of course, Jack thought to himself as he stepped into the air conditioned lobby, Bittle would tell him this was nothing, Georgia summers were hot and humid, not a great combination. 

Jack’s phone dinged on the counter. He reluctantly turned away from his laptop, one of his former professors sent him a really interesting article about some new historical locations opening in Massachusetts. 

‘Good morning, honey!’ Jack smiled when he saw the text from Bitty, nearly forgetting the article. ‘I was looking for some bakeries to try the next time I visit, and I found something you would really be interested in!’ At the end of the text was a hyperlink. Jack clicked through, expecting a similar article to the one he had just been reading. He scanned the article, freezing on the words “French-Canadian”. A sudden pang of homesickness hit Jack, which surprised him. He was used to living away from home, but there was still a part of him that remembered being 10 years old, playing hockey with the neighborhood kids on the pond, their parents yelling encouragement in French. Jack scrolled back up and read the article again. He opened another web tab on his phone and searched Google for a few minutes. Writing down an address, he dialed a familiar number.

“Hey, Georgia. Can I borrow your car? There’s something I need to do today…”

Jack followed the directions of the GPS, travelling up 146. Eventually, he started to see exit signs for the city he was trying to reach. He passed through an intersection, the GPS telling him he was 10 minutes from his destination. He stayed in the far right lane, passing stores and such lining the highway. Finally, Jack crested the hill overlooking Park Square, Woonsocket. Directly in front of him, a church took up most of the block. Amusement park rides were being set up on the grassy area of the church, and brightly colored booths took up parking lot space. To his right, an old-fashioned candy shop advertising maple butter and other treats backed a strip mall, and to his left the parking lot of a grocery store was jammed packed. Jack didn’t realize he missed his turn until the GPS said “recalculating”. Luckily, it found an alternate route for him to take.

Jack turned right onto Providence Street, passing a small baseball field. A bunch of kids were playing on the field, not really an organized game, but pickup baseball. He followed Providence Street until the end, admiring the older Colonial houses.

“Must’ve been built during the early mill years,” Jack spoke aloud to himself. He turned right onto South Main Street, admiring the Baptist church. He finally entered Market Square, the dam on his left and the river flowing on his right. Most of the buildings looked original. Jack missed the entrance to the parking lot of the Museum of Work and Culture, so he followed traffic around the square. He managed to make his way to Main Street, admiring the original mill buildings. One caught his eye, and Jack quickly pulled into the parking lot next to the building. He stared up at the giant mural painted in the side of the building, large lettering reading “Bienvenue à Woonsocket, The French Quarter”. Jack couldn’t quite identify the emotions welling up inside him. It was part homesickness, part the feeling that he found home, and part something else. He was frozen in place, standing outside Georgia’s car, traffic passing by on Main St. Jack finally unfroze and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He took a picture of the mural, telling himself he would send it to his dad and Bits later on. 

“Welcome to the Museum of Work and Culture,” An teenager greeted Jack at the information desk. “How can I help you today?” 

“Uh, one adult ticket please,” He answered. The teenager processed his request.

“Are you visiting from Québec?” The girl asked him, taking his money and making change. She noticed the surprised look on his face. “My grandfather is from Québec, your accent reminded me of his,” She explained, handing Jack his ticket and change. 

“Visiting, but not from Québec,” Jack said. “I play hockey in Providence.” 

Recognition dawned on the teenagers face. “You play for the Falconers.” 

“Uh, yes,” Jack answered. “Jack Zimmermann, right wing.”

“Lynne Gervais. My family are huge fans of yours and the Falcs,” The teenager introduced herself. Jack tried not to blush.

“Thank you. It’s always great to meet fans,” He answered. “Do you mind if I…?” He pointed into the museum.

“Of course,” Lynne answered. “Go on in. There’s maps by the door, if you’d like.” Jack nodded his thanks and entered the museum, picking up a map as he passed by. 

Jack paused between exhibits, studying the map.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Zimmermann,” Someone spoke to Jack’s right. He looked up to see an older man standing there, with a nametag that identified him as Adrien Nadeau, tour guide. 

“Bonjour, Monsieur Nadeau,” Jack shook the man’s hand. He was surprised they were almost eye level. 

“Enjoying the museum?” Adrien asked.

“Very much,” Jack answered. “I never knew there was a French-Canadian city in Rhode Island.”

Adrien laughed, commenting, “It’s a well kept secret. Here, let me show you around.” Jack followed the older man through the museum, to an exhibit hall with sports memorabilia and photos. Jack did a double take when he saw one of the hockey jerseys mounted on the wall. The jersey itself was red, with a blue stripe bounded by white stripes running through the middle. On the blue stripe was stitched an interlocking M, St, and C. The jersey reminded Jack almost of the Montreal Canadiens jersey his father wore for years. 

“That’s a jersey from the 1985 Mount Saint Charles hockey team. Mount swept the high school division for hockey, recording 26 consecutive state titles. Plenty of those boys went pro, too. Still the best hockey program in the state,” Adrien explained to Jack. He pointed to a team picture, high school boys and their coaches surrounding a banner proclaiming Mount St. Charles the 1985 State Champions. “That’s Mathieu Schneider. Got drafted by the Canadiens two years after this picture was taken. Played for them for a few months before they sent him back to his juniors team. Ended up getting pulled back up and won the Cup with them in 1993.” Jack stared at the picture, trying to remember if Bob had ever told him about Schneider. “Of course,” Adrien pulled Jack’s attention to a photograph on the other side of the room. “Most baseball fans know Nap Lajoie, only Woonsocket resident to make it into the Baseball Hall of Fame.” Jack studied the picture of Nap, recognizing the French-Canadian features. 

“You’re first generation, correct?” Jack asked Adrien. The older man nodded. 

“My parents brought me and my brothers here when I was 10. My father’s grandparents moved here when they got married, but his parents moved back to Canada. When industry in Woonsocket boomed during World War Two, my parents moved back here for a few years. My father served overseas, in Italy, and my mother worked in the mills,” Adrien led Jack to another section of the museum, pointing to a picture of a mill building. “After the war, they had some business to wrap up in Canada, which is when I was born. Then we moved back here. My father worked as a photographer for the Woonsocket Call until he retired.” Adrien stared at the photograph, lost in thought. Jack the read the description. ‘Alice Mill, located on First Street. Established 1901, closed 2001.’

“Is this the mill your mother worked in?” He asked Adrien. 

“Yep. The mill dyed cloth, some of it went on to supply the soldiers fighting the war, some of it stayed local.” Adrien moved to another photograph. “Unfortunately, the mill burned down in 2012. It was one of the biggest mill fires in the area, the smoke plume could be seen for miles.” Adrien shook his head, turning away from the dramatic photo. “Here, I’ll show you some of the better Woonsocket traditions.” 

“On Main Street, there’s a mural. How much of Woonsocket is the French Quarter?” Jack asked, following Adrien back towards the front of the museum.

Adrien laughed. “Officially, the downtown area has been known as the French Quarter since the city was founded. But most of the city is French-Canadian, mostly third and fourth generation now. There’s a group of us first and second generation people that meet once in awhile and reminisce about the old days.” He stopped in front of a series of photographs, clearly showing the same setting in different time periods. “The city started Autumnfest in 1979. It happens every Columbus Day Weekend, and, if you ask me, it’s the best weekend of the year. No better place to get dynamite.” Jack broke away from one of the newer photos to stare incredulously at Adrien. The older man burst out laughing. “Calm down, Jacques. I’m not talking about the explosive. Dynamite is a sandwich, hamburger cooked with peppers and onions and red pepper, served in a torpedo roll. Strictly Woonsocket French-Canadian, and every family has their own recipe.”

“I passed a church setting up for a festival on the way in. Was that in Woonsocket or no?” Jack asked, wandering around the room to look at other pictures from Autumnfests past. 

“Out in Park Square? That’s Our Lady, Queen of Martyrs. They have a summer festival every year, this year is their 60th anniversary.” Adrien answered. The two walked back out to the front, where Lynne was still tending the information desk. Adrien retrieved a piece of paper from the desk and wrote something down, then walked back over to Jack. The hockey player’s head was spinning, he’d learned so much about the small city in one day.

“Here’s my phone number and email. Call me sometime and come to one of the meetings of the old folks. Some of them have stories from before I lived in the city, they know it better than I do,” Adrien offered Jack the piece of paper. “And you’re always welcome back here, tell ‘em you know Adrien Nadeau and they’ll give you the VIP treatment.” Jack laughed.

“Thank you so much, Adrien. It’s been an honor getting a tour from you.” The two men shook hands again, and Jack left the building. He crossed the square and stood at the side of the dam. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, sending Bitty a text with the picture of the mural, then dialing his dad’s number. He heard the line ring for a few moments before Bob picked up.

“Hey, Dad. Did you ever play with a guy named Mathieu Schneider? He’s from this little French-Canadian city in Rhode Island named Woonsocket…..”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Tumblr. Part 1 of 4.


End file.
